The Super Bowl made it official: I’m turning into my dad. | Opinion

It is reported that over 123 million people tuned in for Super Bowl LVIII. This makes me certain I’m not the only one for whom life was imitating art — or commercial art, anyway — on Super Bowl Sunday. Certain changes unmistakable in their source overtook me.

For some people, these changes happen gradually. For me, they were sudden. It started just before kickoff, but like a dog in a car the minute he knows he’s headed not for the park but rather the kennel, I was powerless to stop it. The Super Bowl brought it out in me.

A game for the ages, the result is now in the books. The team I wanted to win, the San Francisco 49ers, was unsuccessful, but two things are now crystal clear. First, the victorious Kansas City Chiefs are a special football team. Second, I am turning into my father.

The brilliant Progressive Insurance commercials that warn of the danger of turning into your parents say more truth in jest. Almost immediately after kickoff on Sunday evening, I found myself needing the counsel of iconic Parenta-Life Coach Dr. Rick from the commercials.

“Parentamorphosis,” Dr. Rick’s wry diagnosis, is very real — and the only logical explanation for my armchair behavior.

Why else would I have yelled fretfully, when 49ers offensive tackle Trent Williams was called for holding in the first quarter, “there’s holding on every down in the NFL”? It’s true but irrelevant, like noting no U.S. Marine has ever enjoyed the movie “Harold and Maude.”

I cheered on 49ers running back Christian McCaffrey as though he still played for my beleaguered team, the Carolina Panthers. But when he scampered to pay dirt on a trick play in the second quarter, did I really need to remind him to “follow the convoy” out of the backfield and then, importantly, to “run to daylight”? Smart money says that was the plan.

Speaking of touchdowns, Chiefs wide receiver Marquez Valdes-Scantling scored one to take the lead in the third quarter. His celebration was hardly over the top. This didn’t stop me from reminding all within earshot how Chicago Bears running back Walter Payton simply handed the football to a teammate or official after he scored. I’m pretty sure Jack, my youngest son, mouthed “act like you’ve been there before” with an eye-roll.

I jinxed 49ers placekicker Jake Moody when his extra point was blocked in the fourth quarter. Referring to his effort as both a chip shot and a gimme was a mixing of sports metaphors that must have angered the golf gods, who were probably just trying to enjoy the game.

I remained quiet in overtime, sensing no opportunity to discredit anyone’s yards gained on the ground by noting “you could drive a truck through that hole,” or opine generally how “defense wins championships.” But the damage was done, and the proper deities — the football gods — made sure my team took the loss.

Every one of these outbursts was on the soundtrack of my youth, one spent watching a lot of football with my old man. There is no escaping it; Super Bowl LVIII simply revealed it.

The NFL season is over, so perhaps there’s room for personal growth. With the NBA season gaining momentum, though, it’s just a matter of time before I’m complaining how everyone travels in the NBA, and nobody plays defense. I’m beyond the help of Dr. Rick.

Mike Kerrigan is an attorney in Charlotte and a regular contributer to the Opinion pages.